An ormulu clock on a bracket on the wall struck in silvery tones.
“The hour strikes, you see, Your Excellency,” said Hornblower. He was shaking with the excitement that boiled within him. He felt weak and empty.
“The hour strikes indeed,” answered the Minister. He was clearly struggling desperately not to glance back at the Tsar. “As regards the clock, I regret it deeply, as it reminds me that if I detain you longer you will be late for the Imperial reception.”
“I must certainly not be late for that,” said Hornblower.
“I must thank you for the clear way in which you have stated your views, Captain. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you at the reception. His Excellency the Grand Marshal will show you the way to the Tauride Hall.”
Hornblower bowed, still keeping his eyes from wavering towards the Tsar, but he contrived to back from the room without either turning his back on the Tsar or making his precaution too obvious. They squeezed past the Cossacks on the stairs down to the ground floor again.
“This way, if you please, sir.”
Chapter Twelve
Footmen opened two more huge doors, and they entered a vast room, the lofty ceiling soaring into a dome far above their heads. The walls were a mass of marble and gold, and grouped in the hall was a crowd of people, the men in uniforms of all the colours of the rainbow, the women in Court dresses with plumes and trains. Orders and jewels reflected the light of innumerable candles.
A group of men and women, laughing and joking in French, opened their ranks to admit Hornblower and the Grand Marshal.
“I have the honour to present—” began the latter. It was a prolonged introduction; the Countess of This, and the Baroness of That, and the Duchess of the Other, beautiful women, some of them bold-eyed and some of them languid. Hornblower bowed and bowed again, the Star of the Bath thumping his chest each time he straightened up.
“You will partner the Countess Canerine at dinner, Captain,” said the Grand Marshal, and Hornblower bowed again.
“Delighted,” he said.
The Countess was the boldest-eyed and most beautiful of them all; under the arches of her brows her eyes were dark and liquid and yet with a consuming fire within them. Her face was a perfect oval, her complexion like rose petals, her magnificent bosom white as snow above the low décolleté of her Court dress.
“As a distinguished stranger,” went on the Grand Marshal, “you will take precedence immediately after the Ambassadors and Ministers. Preceding you will be the Persian Ambassador, His Excellency Gorza Khan.”
The Grand Marshal indicated an individual in turban and diamonds; it was a bit of blessed good fortune that he was the most easily identified person in the whole crowd, seeing that Hornblower would have to follow him. Everyone else in the group looked with even greater interest at this English captain who was being accorded such distinction; the Countess rolled a considering eye upon him, but the Grand Marshal interrupted the exchange of glances by continuing the introductions. The gentlemen returned Hornblower’s bows.
“His Imperial Majesty,” said the Grand Marshal, filling in the gap in the conversation when the introductions were completed, “will be wearing the uniform of the Simonouski Guards.”
Hornblower caught sight of Wychwood across the room, his bearskin under his arm and Basse at his side, being introduced to another group. They exchanged nods, and Hornblower returned, a little distractedly, to the conversation of his own group. The Countess was asking him about his ship, and he tried to tell her about Nonsuch. Through the far doors there was filing a double line of soldiers, tall young men in breastplates that shone like silver—that probably were silver—with silver helmets with waving white plumes.
“The Chevalier Guard,” explained the Countess, “all young men of noble birth.”
She looked at them with distinct approval; they were forming against the walls at intervals of two or three yards, each standing like a silver statue as soon as he reached his post. The crowd was moving slowly away from the centre of the room, leaving it clear. Hornblower wondered where the rest of his officers were; he looked round, and realized that there was a further crowd of uniformed individuals in the gallery which ran at first-floor level three-quarters of the way round the dome over his head. That would be where the lesser people could look down on the doings of the great. He saw Hurst and Mound leaning against the balustrade. Behind them young Somers, his low-crowned hat in his hand, was talking with elaborate pantomime to a trio of pretty girls, who were holding weakly on to each other as they laughed. Heaven only knew what language Somers was trying to talk, but he was evidently making himself agreeable.
It was Braun that Hornblower was worried about; yet what with the violence of his reaction after his speech-making, and the chatter and glitter around him, and the sultry glances of the Countess, it was hard to think. Hornblower had to drive himself to keep his mind on his subject. The pistol in Braun’s waistband—the fierce intensity of Braun’s expression—that gallery up there. He could fit the pieces of the puzzle together if only he were left undistracted for a moment.
“The Prince of Sweden will make his entry with His Imperial Majesty,” the Countess was saying.
The Prince of Sweden! Bernadotte, the initiator of a new dynasty, the supplanter of Gustavus, for whom Braun had risked life and fortune. Alexander had conquered Finland; Bernadotte had abandoned it to him. The two men whom Braun had most reason to hate in the whole world were probably Alexander and Bernadotte. And Braun was armed with a double-barrelled pistol, a rifled pistol with percussion caps that never missed fire and which carried true for fifty yards. Hornblower swept the gallery with his eyes. There he was, at the far end, standing unobtrusively between two pillars. Something must be done at once. The Grand Marshal was chattering affably with a couple of courtiers, and Hornblower turned to him, abandoning the Countess and breaking rudely into the conversation with the only excuse that he could think of.
“Impossible!” said the Grand Marshal, glancing at the clock. “His Imperial Majesty and His Royal Highness enter in three and a half minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hornblower. “I regret it deeply, but I must—it is absolutely necessary—it is urgent—”
Hornblower fairly danced with anxiety, and the gesture reinforced the argument he had already advanced. The Grand Marshal stood weighing the relative undesirability of interrupting a Court ceremony and offending someone who, as the recent interview showed, might have the ear of the Tsar.
“Go out through that door, then, sir,” he said reluctantly at length, pointing, “and please, sir, come back without calling attention to yourself.”
Hornblower fled, sidling rapidly but as unobtrusively as possible through the groups of people to the door; he slipped through it and glanced round desperately. The broad staircase to the left must lead up to the gallery. He grasped the scabbard of his sword to keep it from tripping him up and ran up the stairs two at a time; the one or two footmen whom he passed hardly spared him a glance. The gallery was crowded, although the dresses were not as beautiful nor the uniforms as brilliant. Hornblower hurried along towards the end where he had seen Braun; he took long strides while doing his best to look like a nonchalant stroller. Mound caught his eye—Hornblower could not spare the time to say anything, dared not risk saying a word, but he put all the meaning into his glance that he could, hoping that Mound would follow him. Down below he heard the sound of doors being thrown open, and the babble of conversation stopped abruptly. A loud harsh voice announced, “L’Empéreur! L’Impératrice! Le Prince Royal de Suède!”